


Voided Artifice

by Ohtd_luv4ever



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Host (Meyer) Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Functionist Universe (Transformers), Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Venom (Movie 2018), Medical Experimentation, Multi, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohtd_luv4ever/pseuds/Ohtd_luv4ever
Summary: "How very Autobot of you doctor. However there is another option that you have failed to consider.”Flicking two fingers, the sentient weapon beside the commander coiled in tense preparation to strike. That signal was well ingrained. It was time for violence.“Take a leg."
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Voided Artifice

**Author's Note:**

> First Transformers fic is a go. I am weak for the hurt/comfort redemption boi and the grumpy medic. 
> 
> This was Supposed to be a one-shot. Instead it's a multi, whoops. 
> 
> Big thank you to my Beta BardintheNorth for helping me :) 
> 
> As its my Au and I get to play with it as I wish, I wanted to explore what it would be like if Deadlock was a Symbiote/Soul that was placed in Drift by Funtionists to make a nigh unkillable weapon. That's the base, now let's see how it decides to grow lol. Hope you enjoy :3

_ “You wanted to make something of yourself, right Kid?”  _

The words weren't right. The voice wasn’t right. The message behind the sounds was jumbled, scrambled together with another set that had warmed his spark down to its very coding. Wasn’t right. The faceplate that had held out that lifeline merged into another. Less severe, optics a blue so clear and bright it was like looking into the heart of some far distant star. 

_ “Come with me and you’ll get to do things beyond your wildest dreams. Be somebody important.”  _

__ Lies. His dreams would never have fit the mold they had prepared for him. He had been high on hope, desperate for the chance to prove himself through any opportunity that had half a scraplets chance of working. It had been a perfectly baited trap. This was perfectly personalized torture. 

Wary optics flicked over him, assessing; calculating. There was no recognition. He was a threat, and he was being treated as such. Soot and energon streaked white and red plating. It wasn’t enough, nothing would have been enough to make him forget. Would never be enough to disguise the soul of the mech who stood between his patient and the two combatants who had interrupted his treatment. 

Within his invisible bindings, Drift thrashed. It had never worked before, but as his eyes slid away from the one mech he would have given the very plating off his back for; to the wounded soldier he howled silently in protest. It was a mistake. He had been quiet for so long, still for so long he had been half forgotten. The sudden violent opposition took it by surprise.

For a brief moment he grasped at conscious movement. His gaze snapped back to the bulkier form of the protective autobot but his elation only lasted a moment. In less than a blink, control was wrested from his grasp once more with savage force. 

It was curious. Focus now totally on the medic, Drift got to soak in the sight as it studied the ambulance from pedes to helm. On the heels of his indulgence, terror swamped his spark; the possible repercussions for showing his attachment striking like the fist of his superior. 

Back in his little corner, it was hard to be aware. If he really tried he could see and hear and feel all at once, but as time had passed that effort had become less worth it. Let alone trying to actually move his limbs himself. As it was, the conversation if one could call it that between his commanding officer and the defensive doctor had gone utterly ignored by both of them. 

The order came with the sharpness of a knife against his fuel lines. It left a ringing in his audials, fear rising in an all consuming tide. 

“Kill the Decepticon. Then perhaps the doctor will be more willing to show me the respect of his full attention.” 

It wasn’t the kill order that bothered him. Wasn’t the wrong feeling of his arm raising without his permission, gun whirring to life with its deadly payload. It was the determined glint that entered blue optics. The movement that placed himself squarely in the path of death that waited only for the squeeze of a trigger. It was the gaze that locked on his own, stubborn and eternally kind and willing to give of himself until there was nothing left.

It was Ratchet;  _ his _ Ratchet that stood there with defiance and a lifted chin in the face of a monster. 

“I’m afraid you will have to also offline me if you wish to kill him Suppression. And that would be rather counterproductive to getting my full attention.” 

Cruelty was no stranger to the mech that held his leash. Without looking, Drift knew it would be in the tilt of his lips beneath the battle mask that obscured his features. Knew it would be prevalent in his field that was kept tightly reined at all times. Full of mirth, his superior's chuckle sent a shiver down the spinal strut of all present as its oily chillness settled around them. 

“That is Monarch to you Medic. Address me properly, or has your coding really degraded so far with your treasonous actions?" 

Derision filled every inch of the vibrantly colored frame as the mech glared down at the seemingly flippant insurgent. Suppression swiftly composed himself however and rolled his shoulders, resettling his flared plating.

"How very Autobot of you doctor. However there is another option that you have failed to consider.” 

Flicking two fingers, the sentient weapon beside the commander coiled in tense preparation to strike. That signal was well ingrained. It was time for violence.

“Take a leg.” 

It took a nano-klik for his body to move, blade unsheathing from his arm as his free hand holstered the gun. Palm wrapping around the medics face plate Deadlock jerked his prey’s helm up as he swept the doctor's pede’s from under him. The crash as the mech struck the energon splattered ground overpowered the deafening rush of adrenaline in his veins. 

Having instinctively reached up with both hands to pry the servos from around his optics, the doctor had no way in which to try and defend himself as the blade flashed down at the joint of his left knee. 

**“NO!!”**

It missed. The scalpel sharp tip still dug a groove deep into plating that protected the mech’s protoform, pink energon bubbling up in the wound as the rest of the weapons edge burrowed into the ground alongside the condemned limb. 

His shout echoed. Grief and rage overlapped in the word, in his defiance. Shock assaulted him from three fields as servos trembled against soft metal. Blue light peeked from between his digits as the doctor froze in his grip, hands still wrapped around his attacker's wrist in a futile effort to remove the palm obscuring his vision. 

Deadlock snarled. He had been given orders. He had never failed to carry out an order before. Never given less than perfection. He tried to tighten his servos, to dig his claws in. 

“No.” 

It was no less powerful for the lack of volume behind the denial. The claws did not move. Behind him, his superior had reined in his field again, and was watching his weapon with icy silence. Below Drift, Ratchet had begun to squirm, managing to get one optic freed to look up into the conflicted glowing yellow set that was staring back at him. 

Recognition when it came was worse than being an unnamed, impersonal threat. Washer fluid pooled behind the unusual optics, threatening to brim over and fall onto the mech’s faceplates as emotions flickered through the medic's field in quick succession. 

It hurt. It was too much. Wrenching himself away, Drift stood shakily and yanked the short blade from the ground. He hadn’t moved himself in so long he felt uncoordinated; joints stiff from tension. When he faced his commanding officer it was with grim acceptance. He could feel the monster fighting back. Didn’t know how long he had before he lost whatever force of will had allowed him control. 

“I see. This is unfortunate. Though interesting.” 

His pede slid back a few inches as the blast slammed into his shoulder plating. He did not move. The Monarch began walking, each step seeming to shake the very earth. Drift was trembling, refusing to turn around as he felt Ratchet get to his pedes. The Decepticon was on his as well, though the renewed smell of spilled energon told the story in of itself. A snarl, low at first but with growing volume echoed out of his chest as the commander fired another blast. He did not move even as the smell of scorched wires filled his nasal passages. 

“Run Ratchet.” 

Giving the other time to respond would have broken what remained of the tattered spark inside his chest. Instead he launched himself forward with a savage roar, blades gleaming from both wrists. His frame may no longer be his, but in that moment he took full advantage of the monster's coding. He fought with the pent up fury and desperation from nightmare-filled cycles. He fought with a sort of manic glee, fully expecting each landed blow to be his last. Energon sprayed with each successful strike, armor rending on both frames as he spent himself to defend his friend. 

“Fascinating.” 

The strike sent Drift flying. He crashed into the crumbling wall that had been sheltering the medic and his patient, impact pulling a cut off shout of static from his vocalizer. The plating that covered his neck had crumpled. It was a painful pinch against delicate wires and cabling, against the writhing mass of the entity that filled him. Through the hurt, through the haze of a cracked optic and the mass of warnings popping up in his HUD, he watched the noble stride forward at a leisurely pace. 

“I wasn’t expecting this. You fight with less skill, but more ferocity than even it can manage. Perhaps I underestimated you. Underestimated your drive to protect someone obviously important to you.” 

Shrieking metal heralded an overwhelming flood of errors and pain as the mech kicked him onto his stomach. Stamping his pede down on the back of Drift's neck and pinning him to the ground, Suppression ground his weapon's face into the dirty surface of the battlefield.

Howling in agony, Drift thrashed and tried to fire his gun up at his tormentor only to have the weapon smacked from his hand. Suffocating condescension filled his senses as the mech looming over his damaged frame flared his field. Power and dominance and disgust washing over the downed fighter. Still, he struggled and refused to submit. 

Snarling, he bucked against the weight despite the flash of darkness that tried to consume him. He had to keep putting up a fight. Had to keep the Monarch's attention on him. Couldn’t let him go after Ratchet. With a wounded patient they wouldn’t be moving fast. He had to give them as much time as he could. In the distance an odd sound crackled through the atmosphere. It drew the attention of his tormentor and a moment later another spine-chilling chuckle filled Drift's damaged audials. 

“Well. It would seem that the Prime has come to rescue his medic.” 

Relief swamped the supine form beneath the mech's pede. In that moment of weakness, Deadlock surged forward and regained control. He slammed the consciousness of his host body back into it’s corner savagely, going limp and projecting surrender to his commander. The mech noticed the change in his subjugate’s demeanor immediately, but he did not let up on the back of its neck.

It had failed, and punishment would be swift. The added bonus of making a statement to the watching Prime was just rust flakes on top of the energon. Making sure that the leader of the defectives was watching, slowly the Monarch removed his pede and stepped back. 

“Get up Deadlock.” 

The medic was still here as well. Good. As his weapon slowly regained his pedes, Suppression cast his optics up to lock with the Prime's. Slowly, projecting his movements; he pulled an energon prod from subspace and placed the prongs directly against the damaged back of the smaller mech’s neck. 

An animalistic shriek accompanied the full body spasm as current ripped through the damaged plating. The tool's setting did not allow the body of the afflicted to collapse, instead holding it upright through sheer tension as volts rolled through circuits. 

Another bot had to physically restrain the medic he had so recently threatened from vaulting over the edge of the rubble at the sounds of prolonged pain, and a smug smirk played over the noble's hidden lip plates. As Deadlock crumpled to the ground with the deactivation of the prod, a broad hand clamped down on his helm. 

Smoke was drifting up from joints, golden optics were dimmed nearly to unconsciousness. His body was limp with more than his submission now, frame unable to try and right itself as his weight was held up by straining neck cables. 

“We're not here to fight Prime. In a few moments we will take our leave. Deadlock, follow.”

Turning his back on the scene of destruction, the mech didn't bother hiding his delight in the knowledge of the watching Autobots and wounded Decepticon. Suppression activated his t-cog and smoothly slid into his sleek and shining alt mode, giving the fin a self-satisfied flex. 

Stumbling behind his commander, Deadlock ignored the sounds of rising voices from behind him, even as one cut through the rest in an obvious cry of his host's name. It made the nuisance in the back of his mind moan in renewed pain as the call was ignored and he limped away, following the Monarch off the battlefield. 

\-----------------------------------

  
  


_ Three years earlier _

This was the third time he had been back to the Dead End clinic. It was the second time because he wasn’t clean. And the first time he had come under his own power. Processor still fuzzy, reeling from the bad batch of boosters, Drift huddled under the broken street light across from the clinic and mulled over his options. It might not kill him to just ride out the effects on his own.

But the sirens call of the gently lit building was pulling him in like nothing else ever had. The windows were cracked, tinted just enough to give the illusion of privacy to the patients inside. There was the barest flicker of movement visible behind the greyed out glass, just another lure that kept him from walking away. 

He wanted to see Ratchet again. The medic had very quickly earned the central place in his thoughts. Even though he knew that he would be disappointing the grumpy mech again showing up like he was, there was a significant pull in his spark that wanted the comfort he knew would be readily given. Gentle servos, a gruff voice filled with honest concern and those beautiful blue optics who’s glare could scare the paint off any hardened mech in the lower district. Even just thinking about it made Drift shudder pleasantly. 

But he would have to get the struts to actually go across the street and walk through the doors if he wanted to see the medic. Sucking in a slow in-vent to steady his shaky limbs, the junkie pushed himself off the support of the street light and stumbled his way across the road. It was close to closing time for the clinic, only one figure left inside. 

The door handle was difficult to see with all the warnings popping up in his HUD; but somehow he managed it and the strangely comforting sound of the clinic's bell announced his presence. 

Misjudging how much power he was putting behind the shove to open the door, Drift grunted in alarm as he overextended his elbow joint and the inner face of the glass rebounded off the doorframe. Instead of a somewhat normal step through from the outside world, this led to his pede slipping on the mopped floor as the door swung back at him and smacked him straight in the nasal ridge. 

An undignified yelp escaped the mech as the floor abruptly went sideways in his vision, his optics cycling madly as he scrabbled at the door handle to try and stop himself from falling. 

“Woah now!” 

Instead of smacking his helm on the slightly dingy tile as he expected, there was a much lighter bump against nearly pristine white. The splash of red that decorated the plating partially obscured his vision. The sound of a spark humming away a few inches from his audials was enough to make Drift relax. The painful grip he had on the door slid away as two arms encircled his frame, lifting him with surprising strength as Ratchet hefted his unexpected patient up into his secure grip. 

Kicking the door shut, the medic scowled as he carried the younger mech to the nearest berth. Laying him as flat as he could with the shaking that was starting, Ratchet wasted no time in beginning a medical scan. He recognized the most obvious symptoms without any issue and it made his lines run cold. It wasn’t as bad as the first time, that had been too close of a call for his comfort. But the boosters were still doing what they were intended to, along with something they weren't if the reaction of his patient was anything to go by. 

Drift was trying to speak, his optics resetting themselves halfway without him telling them too as the tingle of the scan filled his senses. It was important. He didn’t want the other mech to be any more disappointed in him than he already was. Wanted him to know he wasn’t trying to actually kill himself this time. Working his way through the plethora of warning messages so he could access his vocalizer, words slowly made their way out of his intake. They were filled with static and barely even audible but at least he tried. 

“Didn^zt do it to my^ztt^self doc. Tried t^zt^ to kick em.” 

Glaring down at his troublesome patient, Ratchet wagged a finger at the nearly insensible mech as he accessed his medical port and inserted a defrag chip as well as an external systems filter to help get the slag that was playing havoc with the younger bots frame out. 

“Eup eup eup, you can explain yourself later. Right now I need to focus and make sure you don’t have some kind of virus running around in you. Whatever was in those drugs wasn’t normal. If you can keep talking, answer my questions with a yes or no. Tap the table if you can’t speak any more.” 

He wished his optics weren’t malfunctioning so he could bask in the sight of the medic doing his job. Ratchet was famous for his unwavering focus, commitment and passion for his work and in Drift's humble opinion was stunning. Especially when his optics blazed from the intensity of his emotions. His servos, always gentle when they were treating a wound, moved with grace and obvious skill. It made him wonder what they would feel like petting his helm, holding his own servo….He still hadn’t answered the medic. 

“Ok.” 

Snorting, Ratchet gave the cheeky mech a stern look, but swiftly realized it wouldn’t be effective with how erratically his optics were cycling. Shaking his helm, the medic spent an indeterminable amount of time patching the kid back together. After he had conquered the drugs there was the matter of the obvious roughing up he had been given beforehand. The validity of Drift’s earlier statement that he hadn’t taken the boosters willingly was looking more and more plausible.

As the last dent was being popped out, Ratchet loosed a deep sigh of relief. Might not be fully out of the woods for some of the functions that needed a soft reboot; but it was as close to healthy as the kid was going to get in one night. The feeling of being watched registered on the medics systems as a light tingling; and he wasn’t surprised to see the other's muddy blue grey optics locked on his faceplates. 

“You back with me?” 

“Yes.” 

Chuckling, Ratchet unhooked the plugins from Drift’s medical port and tossed them in the hazardous waste bin. Now that the crisis was nearly over, he could allow himself to divert attention to the overall picture, not just what was sick or hurt. Crossing his arms over his chest, the mech made himself comfortable on the edge of the berth so he could level a considering optic on his patient. 

“Oh of course, now you’ll answer properly. How are you feeling Kid?” 

“Stupid.” 

Concern etched its way in lines from the corners of his derma as Ratchet waited, letting the younger mech work through what he wanted to say without interrupting. He had learned by their second interaction that Drift just needed a little bit of time to think about what was going to come out of his mouth or he locked up tighter than a rotorclam. 

“Stuck my nose into somebody’s business. Got jumped. They had heard around that I was going clean… and decided to change that.” 

A bitter smile tugged at Drift's derma as he looked up at the older mech, coolant pooling in his optics at the look on Ratchet’s face plates. That was one thing that every mecha who came through the clinic all agreed on. There was never any pity in their medic's actions for his patients. Plenty of grump and bluster and even a thrown wrench or two, but never pity. The fury on Drift’s behalf that tightened every line of the medic's body made a not unpleasant shiver run down the younger mech's frame, and his glossa stuck to the roof of his mouth at the tightly controlled ‘I see’ that fell on his audials. 

Pushing himself up on the berth, Drift collected his knees under his frame so he could be at optic level with Ratchet. His lines burned with an intense urge he barely had a handle on. Gratitude flowed thick through his processor as he eyed the other's derma, which were pinched into his usual scowl. The expression didn’t strike fear into Drift like it did others. It excited him. 

“I haven’t had a chance to say thank you.” 

Confusion flickered across the mechs faceplates but swiftly morphed into wide opticed panic as Drift ran his nasal ridge along the curve of his jaw, field flaring with invitation. The younger was pressed close, heat from their frames mingling as he ran one servo just barely along the edge of the medics thigh plating. With a sound rather reminiscent to a tubofox with a stepped on tail Ratchet jumped up and away, blue suffusing his cheeks. His reaction confused Drift, who blinked a couple of times and slowly sat back while the older mech reset his vocalizer. 

“That. Is not only not a good idea because you are still detoxing, but also a major breach of doctor-patient morality.” 

The only thing that Drift heard from the others' explanation was that there hadn’t been a  _ No _ in the sentence. So, he adjusted how he was sitting on the berth, angling himself for his frame's best pose and slowly leaned forward so his servo’s touched the berth. The movement only made Ratchet make another half-staticked noise and made Drift more sure that his offer wasn't being rejected, as so much redirected. 

Shaking his head again, Ratchet waved a hand sternly in a dismissing motion. He forcefully reined in his fluctuating field, scowling deeply to stop his face from doing anything else. He was fully aware of just how attractive the speedster was even in poor repair and had no delusions about his own chances. He was not about to take advantage of the younger mech who was still addled from coming off a bad trip and his patient to boot. The offer hadn’t even been fully articulated but he had a vivid enough imagination to fill in the blanks. 

“Look Kid. I don’t want that kind of thank you.” 

Oh. That was a lot more like a no. Frowning, Drift sat back up and allowed himself to slump into something less lewd. He watched Ratchet carefully, sure he hadn’t misread the other's attraction to him the last time he had been here. But if he didn’t want that kind of thank you, what could he do? He didn’t have anything else that would be worth bartering. Especially not for the level of care that the other mech had always used for him. 

“What do you want then?” 

Relieved that the other had stopped trying his best to imitate the provocative mecha who filled billboards around the seedier parts of town, Ratchet cleared his throat and forced his field to calm down. He wasn’t good with this sort of thing and was honestly baffled that he was having to do it at all. 

“I want you to stay clean. That’s what I want, if your sense of equal exchange or whatever code of conduct around here demands. I don’t want to see you back in here with your processor half fried from those drugs. So, stay clean. Make something of yourself, Primus only knows how much potential you have. You’re gonna blow me away one of these days Kid, someone special like you isn’t meant to waste away in a place like this.” 

That was so much harder than just sucking his spike, or letting the medic frag him. That he could do easy. He would even enjoy it, if it was Ratchet. He’d keep his optics open, do whatever he liked. But the older mech didn’t want that. He wanted Drift to stay clean. A frown pulled at his faceplates, the low fuel warning on his HUD finally forcing its way to the front of his alerts as his empty tanks rumbled. 

The sound snapped the two mechs out of their staring contest. A slow ex-vent and Ratchet was moving, opening a cube of medical grade energon and pushing it into Drifts servos. 

The taste of the energon, thick and tangy in an unpleasant way faded as swiftly as the memory of the medics' voice when a hefty kick pulled Deadlock from his recharge. It flipped him from where he had been laying faceplates down on the floor of his cage over onto his side with a screech of metal. In an instant, his servo had shifted into his blaster and aimed up at his attacker's midsection; the pulse of energy and its mild shockwave rocking him as the weapon snarled, claws digging into the floor as he righted himself. 

Smoke was lazily curling up from the hole that had been punched in his guards chest plates. It wasn't deep enough to kill but it had to hurt like slag from the pissed cursing the mech was doing. It had only been less than a cycle since he had been dumped into the cell, but Deadlock was fully functional.

A few new marrs to the plating that covered his protoform and an odd, tight sensation in his neck where he had been inserted niggled at the mechs processor; but otherwise he was in top fighting condition. A derisive laugh was coming from the open door where a second guard was enjoying the sight of his fellow making a fool of himself. 

“I told you that they wouldn’t have shut off his combat systems you idiot. Now you get to deal with getting yourself fixed up by Forcep.” 

Deadlock did not take his optics off the guard he had wounded. If they had woken him, that meant his commander wanted to see him. Most likely to discuss what was going to be done about his slip in control. He wasn’t looking forward to it, his host was still present. Ever since seeing the medic he hadn’t gone away the way he should have. It had been almost a full stellar year since he had even noticed he was there. It was irritating that the presence of one mech could disrupt everything. 

The other guard was gesturing now. He didn’t bother giving a verbal order, the routine was well established by this point. No one would have been informed about his weakness. He was supposed to be his commander's perfect weapon. Not disobey orders, fail to kill when told and attack his superior. Whatever was coming was not going to be pleasant, and it was all the idiot cybertronian's fault. 

A well aimed mental jab prodded at the sullen presence in his mind, but the other was exhausted from his defiance the previous cycle. Satisfied, Deadlock rose from his aggressive crouch and ignored the mech he had shot as he passed through the open cell door and followed his escort to the Monarch’s office. He would not shy away from his punishment. The beating on the battlefield didn’t count. He knew that his commander would have a much more suitable punishment in store for him. 

Suppression was reading the latest of the reports from the senate when his pet project was delivered. He did not acknowledge the mech, simply continued with his article as the other stood at attention waiting. Long klicks passed before the brightly colored mech finally lifted his optics to idly look over the weapon he had made. If not for the previous day, and the lingering damage that his self repair was taking care of, he wouldn’t have believed it was possible. 

Any host that successfully accepted a symbiote always faded. Nothing of the previous mecha remained. Only faded memories that were swiftly replaced. This was an oddity, and one that he was curious to see if he could replicate. Of course without the physical object of the cybertronian's ferocious protective impulses around, he would have to improvise. 

“Deadlock. You know why you are here. However, I am not going to speak to you today. I will speak with Drift, if he’s still there that is.” 

Shock filtered across the usually impassive faceplates before a scowl took its place. The weapon didn’t dare to complain that his commander shouldn’t waste his time trying to talk to his host. He simply inclined his head, voice monotone as he answered. 

“He is still present commander. However I do not intend on letting him gain control again. But, he listens.” 

“Oh I’m sure he is. You see your little stunt yesterday has brought up an interesting turn of events. I cannot have my weapon being compromised the moment a simple scrap heap medic decides to show his face on the battlefield.” 

The insult got Drift's attention. From his little corner he rumbled angrily, ignoring the parasite's alarm at the strength of the reaction despite his exhaustion. For a brief moment his neck ached and his optics fuzzed, and panicking Deadlock shoved at the presence in his mind to try and quiet it. What was wrong with his frame? 

A minute twitch was the only outward reaction. It was enough. Suppression smirked as he twirled his pen, cocking his head to the side as he watched his weapon struggle. How interesting. Going straight for the throat of the issue, the Monarch lazily dropped the bomb that he had been preparing. 

“You will kill that medic. Ratchet was it? You will hunt him down, rip the spark from his chest and the helm from his neck and bring them both to me as proof of your continued usefulness to the Functionist cause.” 

A nano-klick of frozen tension in Deadlock’s frame melted away at his commander's words. Instead of the explosion of violence he had expected, a single word fell from the mech's derma instead to hang heavy in the air between them. It was painfully obvious that the being before his optics was no longer his weapon, the passion and sheer murderous fury burning in the golden optics a clear giveaway if the frame language didn’t tip him off. 

“No.” 

“I expected as much. How fascinating that you have managed to endure and still have such control over your frame Drift.” 

Fists clenched at his sides hard enough to draw energon from his palms, the mech outright hissed his defiance at the smug bastard as he clenched his jaws together. Sharpened fangs ground against each other as he fought against himself, keeping his limbs locked tight. He refused to let the creature shove him back into the dark so easily again. He had something to say. 

“I would rather offline myself than put another scratch on his frame. I will not hurt him. I will not kill him. Never him. Do what you want with me, but Ratchet is off limits.” 

Suppression’s optics gleamed. He was delighted and incensed in the same sparkbeat. What a delightful opportunity to bring the little gutter mech to heel. 

“And once you've offlined yourself to keep from hurting him, who will be around to keep him out of our laboratories? A medic can undergo an Empurata and still keep his hands after all. No need for pesky things like emotions...memories...or a face when those lovely doctor’s skills are all that are useful.” 

Ice filled Drift’s veins. A keen escaped his derma before he could stop it, field pulsing wildly with distress at the thought of Ratchet on one of their torture slabs, being stripped of anything that made the mech  _ Him _ . In the same moment, a raging fire erupted in his spark and Deadlock grunted as he was shoved further into the back of the mech’s mind. The single minded focus of envisioning the Monarch's spark crushed in his clawed fist sent a tingle of impressed but grudging respect through the symbiote. 

“You Will  **Not** Touch him!” 

The smile hovering around the edges of the Functionist’s derma did not falter. He simply twirled his pen, observing his weapon remolding himself into something truly interesting before his optics. 

“Oh? Then perhaps we need to come to an understanding. If you want your medic to remain untouched….safe from being snatched from his berth and Erased. You will be perfect. You will let Deadlock do his work. You will never fail your missions. You will never question orders. Your success determines his fate. Remain useful and productive and your medic will be off limits. A rather generous offer, you'd be a fool to reject it.” 

Drift stared with unseeing optics as the words sunk in. He could protect Ratchet? Keep him safe, keep him from being targeted on the battlefield, keep him from being tortured and captured and broken? There was nothing else he wanted in the world. 

“Ok.” 

The smile that was growing on Suppression's faceplates halted as the mech held up a hand, the eerie golden optics boring into him with savage intensity. His voice held the tones of finality, the promise of an oath. 

“If you go back on your word, if Ratchet is harmed by Functionist hands or targeted by your people...Unicron himself will be unable to keep me from smelting the spark from your chest. I will kill you. I will burn your entire faction to the ground without remorse.” 

A shiver of something ran down the Monarch's spine. It wasn’t quite a premonition but a warning, and one he intended to heed. He had crafted the monster before him with as much care as a work of art. It was beautiful to behold, in this unexpected facet. The expression that took over his normally carefully composed faceplates made the watching Deadlock cringe. He knew that look.

“Well in the best interest of keeping things from becoming too savage, I will just have to keep my word. Now….Deadlock. I believe it is time to discuss your punishment.” 

As his weapon wrested control back from his host with difficulty to answer his commander's call, Suppression allowed the smile to fade from his derma. Things had just become much more dangerous and much more interesting. After all, what was life without a little gamble with life and death thrown in. He would have to keep his project on a tight leash, keep him away from the medic for as long as possible. Primus only knew what the mech would do to protect the infuriating doctor if he met him again on the battlefield and the monarch was not there to rein him in. 


End file.
